


That Tingly Feeling

by releasetheglitch



Series: When We Start [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Figging, M/M, Riding Crops, inappropriate use of collars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginger. That's it. That's the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Tingly Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Elly requested: Please, please, please a story in which James follows through and does fig Q? With some dominance and orgasm denial as a side?
> 
> I couldn't quite work in the orgasm denial (aka I completely forgot about it until I'd finished I'm very sorry) but look, lots of figging and dominance hooray!

Q is just finishing up at the lab when he gets a text from James. Turning away from his assistants (James tended to send inappropriate photos at the most inopportune of times), he unlocks the small device with a flick of his thumb and reads the message.

_come home soon got a surprise for you_

For a brief moment Q wonders if James has managed to procure the Chinese military chip he’s been desperately wanting to take apart. But then he remembers: double-oh six is the one currently in Shanghai, and he has been spending far too much of his time in R&D if he’s actually managed to get that trigger-happy asshole confused with his own—well, alright, they’re both trigger-happy assholes. Still, best not to mention his lapse in memory to Bond. Ever.

Or maybe he should. He does love it when James got angry and possessive. That time after the idiot in accounting had tried to woo him with a box of cakes—he has to suppress his shiver of arousal, standing not two feet away from his blissfully unaware assistants.

He entertains himself on the trip back with fantasies of what James’ surprise will be. The fun thing about their relationship: he can never predict when James is in a romantic mood or a sensual one. He’s just as likely to be greeted with a candlelight dinner and scented massage oils as he is being shoved onto the table and treated as, well, _dinner_.

After a moment’s daydream, he rouses himself with a shake and texts:

_On the tube. Hope you weren’t too ambitious, you know I’m test-driving motorcycles tomorrow._

Less than a minute later, his phone chimes,

_;)_

Q shakes his head. And will deny to his dying day that he redirects the traffic flow so he can get home faster.

***

The flat is warm when he steps inside—almost uncomfortably so, his first hint that what James has in mind is darker than a simple home-cooked dinner and makeout session. James always turns the heat up high when he wants Q to be naked for extended periods of time. Q can feel the stress and fatigue of the day fall away even as he drops his windbreaker and laptop bag to the ground.

“Honey, I’m home!” Q calls lightly, and hears James’ responding chuckle from deeper within the flat. A moment later, the patter of bare feet. And. Well.

“Good day at the office, sweetheart?” Oh, this isn’t fair. James is wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans, torn at the knees and riding low on his hips and _shite_ Q wants to do nothing more than lick those hipbones and the sparse trail of hair leading down his abdomen, a tantalizing hint that made his mouth water in anticipation. He took a deep breath. And tried to keep from staring too obviously at James’ muscular torso and hips and thighs and— _ahem_. Failing miserably, if the smug expression on the man’s face was anything to go by.

Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Q makes a brave attempt at nonchalance. “Same old. Some wanker set his face on fire. It’ll be weeks before his eyebrows have a chance at growing back.”

James hums in sympathy. “Poor bastard. Same thing happened to Alec in Somalia and he couldn’t get laid for ages afterwards.” The casual conversation belies his predatory stroll and the wolfish grin on his face, making Q feel like prey, frozen in the face of imminent danger and unable to flee.

“Must’ve been frustrating,” Q manages, before James is upon him and suddenly their lips are on each other and Q moans into the deep kiss that steals his breath and makes his head spin with giddiness. A broad hand snakes behind him, groping at his arse and crushing his slim frame to James’ chest. Q falls in, hands locked behind James’ neck and hungrily pulling him into the kiss, unwilling to let him pull back even when his lungs begin to cry out for air. He pushes back at the hand on his arse, feeling smug when James snarls and crushes his fingers into its plumpness. Q is ridiculously proud of his arse, considering how unconcerned he otherwise is about his physical appearance.

“Is this your surprise?” He goads. “Gonna fuck me up against the wall? Or here on the floor?” He hopes it’s the wall; his knees are not capable of being pressed against hardwood for hours, not if he wants any chance of walking properly the next day.

To his confusion, James pulls back at the words, though the heat in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. “Nope,” he grins, the corner of one mouth twitching upwards. “But if you strip and join me in the kitchen, I promise not to disappoint.”

The kitchen. Q’s idle fantasies of being spread out on the dining table and eaten out like a five-course meal flare to life with a renewed vigour. He kicks off his clothes eagerly, leaving them in a rumpled mess on the floor. Bond rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, and right he doesn’t. Not everyone can be expected to be as well put-together as he is.

James raises an eyebrow and Q drops his gaze, peeking up through his eyelashes in a move he’s learned from daytime soaps he only watches when James is out of the country. James hisses at the look, and Q feel oddly vindicated.

Q is bent over the kitchen table with a firm hand to the back of his nape. It’s almost primal, the casual display of dominance. A predator pinning his bitch, and Q goes limp and boneless with submission. He stretches out, making his spine crack and raising his arse temptingly.

Bond doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he seems to be fiddling with Q’s collar.

“What is this?”

“Um. A collar? The one we picked out together? Your memory gets worse by the—oh. Right.” Because Bond is brandishing a cluster of wires in his hands, and Q suddenly remembers.

"The collar’s great for holding tools," says Q unrepentantly. "Consider installing more rings? For me?" He cranes his neck upwards and pecks James on the lips sweetly.

“We are not turning your collar into a utility belt,” says James, laughter in his voice even as he continues picking out bits and pieces. A smattering of screwdrivers. A USB drive on a keychain. Frankly, Q’s amazed that he managed to get past MI6 security with so many bits of metal on his body.

“Oh,” says Q, when James has finished and has revealed his surprise with a smug flourish. “ _Oh._ ”

He’d brought up figging on a whim, remembering a porn video he’d watched in uni. How the boy—just a boy, the same age and build as him—fell apart under the onslaught of such a small, innocent-looking root. How he'd wailed and squirmed as if possessed.

Needless to say, Q is very fond of powerful things that look small and innocent.

“About time you brought that out,” he attempts in a disaffected tone, knowing that he’s not fooling either of them. “I’d have been disappointed if it turned out you’d forgotten about my suggestion.”

James hums thoughtfully, moving the root across his spine and towards his arse. The cold water leaves a trail across his back and he flinches each time a drop hits his skin. “Actually, I read that letting the ginger ferment will give a more potent effect. I’m interested to see just how much you’ll squirm and cry with the extra intensity.”

Oh, he hadn't known that. He bristles involuntarily; there's not much he doesn't know, even less that he can't discover with a stroke of the keyboard, and the affront to his intelligence has him opening his mouth defensively. But.

The point is that he doesn't know, and he doesn't have to know. James, his lovely, overprotective dominant who's never properly filled out a single piece of paperwork in his life takes care of that for him. With James, he's allowed to lie back and let someone do the research. Make the decisions. It's a little piece of sanctuary in the middle of his otherwise meticulous life.

So he spreads his legs trustingly. The plug is set on the table close to his face as James pries his cheeks apart and examines his hole. Q wants to pay full attention, but he's distracted by the root lying not two feet from his face. The scent is strong, sharply pungent to his admittedly unspectacular nose and damn, James wasn't joking about letting the thing ferment; it smells ten times stronger than the ginger he's offered in sushi restaurants.

It doesn’t feel so bad at first. Kind of wet, kind of cold, not unlike any of the regular dildos Q has taken before. He shrugs at James' questioning look. “Feels alright, sir.”

“Give it a minute,” James huffs. “I’m told that a spanking can enhance the process. Would you like something to play with?”

Tempting, tempting. Q can never resist a good spanking, but motorcycles. On rough terrain. For hours. Add a sore arse to the mix and not even Q is that much of a masochist.

“Crop,” he finally decides. The small leather tab won’t cause him to bleed, and he didn’t mind a bit of pain. “And hand, if you’d like. But mostly the crop, please. Sir.”

“Anything for you.” James kisses him and Q can hear his receding footsteps on the wooden floor. There’s a bit of tingling in his arse, barely noticeable and he clenches thoughtfully, wriggling a bit in an attempt to move the plug deeper in. Yep, definitely a tingle. A bit like chewing spearmint gum and inhaling through one’s mouth.

The first strike of the crop is wonderful. Sharp and stinging, throwing his every sense into exquisite focus as heat blossoms across his rump. It’s exactly what he needs to clear his mind into fuzzy nothingness and simply _feel_.

They’re six strikes in when he really feels it working. It’s icy and hot and searing its way through his channel, a slow burn that feels like ice cubes applied directly to sensitive tissue, without even its numbing effects to take away the intensity of it all. He moans low in his throat and James’ satisfaction is nearly palpable as he hits Q again.

Fifteen strikes and Q is desperate, caught between the steady blows from the crop and the burn of the ginger. His hips move without his permission, practically humping the table in his attempt to escape the plug _that bloody plug that won’t fucking move no matter how he squirms._ The next blow from the crop is hard, harder than the previous strikes and he clenches down hard as his muscles spasm. The ice-menthol-jalapeno sensation intensifies and he wails, shrill and desperate.

“Don’t clench,” chides James, and Q wants to scream and curse _let’s see if you can handle it any better you bloody bastard_. But the crop comes down again and he chokes on the words with a strangled whimper as he clenches unwillingly, the icy hot juices of the ginger attacking his poor abused hole.

He forces himself to relax for the next blow and fuck fuck fuck it _hurts_ , the sting of the crop ten times worse on his surrendered flesh. No, it hurts more when he does clench and the inside of his arse feels like it's on fire and _thwack_ he's crying, great heaving sobs that makes the snot run from his nose and his cheeks flushed with exertion. _Thwack_ again and oh god, James is relentless, the blows seemingly even harder now that he's drawn tears from Q.

Without even realizing it he's started to beg. The words tripping out of his mouth mindlessly, in a tone so wrecked and needy that he can barely recognize it as his own. “Please James—sir—please let me _oh please_ sir it hurts _please_ —” he’s not sure if he’s pleading for it to stop or pleading for more. Judging from James’ amused snort, he’s chosen to interpret it as the latter.

He’s dizzy with relief when he hears the crop drop to the ground. And cries out when he feels fingers tugging at the plug of ginger, pumping it in and out of his body, driving it in deeper and _twisting_. The ginger fucks him mercilessly under James' careful ministrations and Q is helpless to stop it. It's a bit ignominious, a bit like keeping himself as an open hole for James to toy with, but preferable to the _zing_ that pierces through his lower body when he clenches down. He makes a halfhearted attempt at struggling, his muscles barely cooperative and anyway there’s no way to escape the cold burn, not when James tsks and cups both his arse cheeks and pushes them together. A fresh wave of sobs pours out of Q’s mouth at the renewed assault, his already-abused channel now suffering the full effect of the ginger.

“Alright, sweetheart?” James asks in a voice that wouldn’t melt butter as Q’s legs tremble with the exertion and the impulse to close them and sink to the ground. And really, Q’s half a step from trying to claw the man’s eyes out but James would just find some even more hellish torture to inflict on him so he just growls something and tries to keep from passing out.

Of course, he should’ve realized that a bastard like James Bond would have so, so much more lined up for him.

“You look beautiful, Q,” James purrs. Q’s hips buckle, slamming into the hard edge of the table as firm fingers wrap around his hard cock. He hadn’t realized the extent of his frustration til that moment, but when James twists his wrist _just so_ , it hits Q like an Aston Martin at the hands of a particularly reckless agent.

Q watches with glazed eyes as James moves into his line of sight and shows him his hand, slick with pre-cum. His mouth drops open as James makes a show of licking his hand clean, that sinful tongue alternating between broad strokes and quick, small nips and Q _wants._ He can feel his mouth watering, his own tongue darting out in sympathy as James slowly—oh so slowly—licks up every drop, eyes never leaving his own.

“Please let me taste, sir,” Q begs when it appears as if James has no intention of stuffing anything in his mouth.

“You want to taste?” James repeats, thoughtfully. “Want something in that pretty little mouth of yours?” Q nods, with too much enthusiasm, he suspects, but bugger it all. What’s the use of dignity in a situation like this?

He’s confused when James pulls the ginger out, and there’s that flash of disorientation, where he’s gaping and empty and desperate for something to fill him up but at the same time so much relief that the evil little thing is finally gone. There’s a sharp sound behind him. Sort of wet, and grating, and his brow furrows as he does his best to resist the urge to turn around and see exactly what James is doing.

When James returns to his line of vision and shows Q what’s in his hand, Q freezes. No. No. He wouldn’t.

“Open up, Q.” And Q whines, because that cursed length of ginger is being pressed to his lips. James must have whittled it down, because there’s a fresh layer of juice covering the root, and his lips are already beginning to sting and James bloody well knows that this wasn’t what he had in mind when he asked for a taste. But—he opens his mouth obediently when James presses a little more insistently. He does so hate to disappoint.

James’ hips slam his against the table, and the heavy slap of his bollocks against Q’s arse ignites little flashes of pain across his scarlet flesh. He gasps for breath at the thick back-and-forth slide of James’ cock against ginger-treated tissue that flinches at the slightest touch. James doesn’t allow him any concessions, setting a fast, brutal pace that sends all of Q’s nerve-endings into overdrive. The heavy material of his jeans scrape across Q's thighs and he can feel the metal button digging into the crease where thigh meets arse. There'll be marks tomorrow, to be explored leisurely and pressed with discretion, away from prying eyes. His mouth is swollen with the ginger’s juices, and he gasps for breath with an open mouth, unable to inhibit any of the little whimpers and moans that are punched out of his throat with every snap of Bond's hips.

Moments pass, and Q’s world narrows down to the tingling in his mouth and the near-unbearable slide of cock in his arse. He feels delightfully ignominious, as if reduced to a set of holes to be used at James' pleasure. It's dirty. Oh so dirty. He should be curling into himself with shame at the very idea but in the slick slide of their bodies, in the haze of desire and frenzied lust, there's simply no space for humiliation to set in.

James comes with a low groan, emptying himself into Q’s wriggling body. He slumps over Q when he’s done, sweaty torso heavy against Q’s back and Q makes a sound of confusion. Has Bond forgotten…?

Then there’s a hand wrapped around his cock and the speed with which Q comes is almost shameful. He feels like he’s a teenager again, exploding at the slightest touch. Except teenage-Q would never be quite as daring with his sexual proclivities; kinky technological prodigies aren’t exactly in high demand amongst bed partners. 

He watches with hazy eyes as Bond eases him off the table and over to the couch. There’s a trail of cum leaking from his arse all across the floor, and he feels bad that James will likely be the one to clean it up while he’s rendered useless in his post-orgasm daze. James eases his lips open and remove the little nub of ginger. Q expects him to discard it, but James looks at it curiously. Takes a large bite and chews.

"It tastes vile," he says with childish disgust, going so far as to wrinkle his nose and gag. "I don't know how you managed to put up with this stuff. I feel as if my tongue's gone numb."

Sod that. Q’s making him clean the entire flat until it _shines_.


End file.
